Surrogates
by msmoocow
Summary: We find connections in the most unlikely places.


_Author's note: Thank you so much to **Auds**, **Atilla**, and **TheGiantSquid** for their lovely suggestions, hand-holding, and excellent beta work. This was written for the **hpspringsmut** fic exchange on LiveJournal, for **coffeencocoa**, aka **bryonyraven**. _

_While I'm a canon girl at heart, this pairin__g is very close to my heart. I think they'd have an interesting dynamic, and I hope you'll see that in this story. Also, feedback is love. :)_

---

_one._

It's hard to put his finger on the exact difference, but it's there all the same, that feeling he gets when things aren't quite right. It's less intuition than observation on Neville's part, though, for any fool can see that people are _scared_.

He's got to hand it to McGonagall, who's taken her newfound leadership to heart, it seems. With all the professors, really, it feels like business as usual. They continue with their N.E.W.T.-level courses, and are as cryptic or earnest or strict as ever, depending on who's teaching. Still, he detects a slight frisson of the eyes whenever people look at him, and he supposes that it's all part of playing the hero. Twice now, he's faced death or something like it, and now even Filch treats him with a grudging respect.

It isn't exactly a bad reaction –­­­ after all, it's about time people see him as more than a bumbling oaf. But it's disheartening to know that the ones who deserve the real recognition have gone off on some grand and awful adventure, and half the rest of the students have been kept at home by anxious parents. ­­

The absence of enthusiastic chatter is made all the more acute in the Great Hall, where McGonagall makes a speech. She seems to feel that words are unnecessary, that people are subconsciously demanding _action_, and Neville has to agree.

As she steps down and strides back to her seat, the silence is broken by a couple of Hufflepuffs murmuring, and the sound grows to a stable hum. Neville picks up his spoon and looks around the hall, notices gaps and spaces where there should be students. Dean and Seamus are a few spaces down the table, and sprinkled round are a few more clumps of friendly sorts, but overall the atmosphere is still somber, what with well over half the population missing.

Come to think of it, there are so few students this year that one table would surely hold all four houses.

Scanning the sparsely populated Gryffindor table (there seem to be more Gryffindors missing than any other house, which he wouldn't have thought likely) he spies Lavender Brown, at the other end of the table, staring at her meal detachedly, as if it's there and not there. Their eyes meet and he flushes, but he doesn't turn away.

_---_

It's a shock, the first time he detects the heavy floral scent. It's an odor he usually associates with his grandmother and other old women, and he certainly doesn't expect to be bombarded with the smell in the middle of Charms.

Neville looks around the classroom, trying to place its source. It's not coming from Professor Flitwick (he shudders at the thought of Flitwick dousing himself in lilac water), and it wasn't Dean or Parvati, either. Sniffing lightly, he leans to his left, where Lavender is concentrating on her wand movements. The sleeve of her wand arm falls back slightly, exposing a pale wrist. The scent intensifies, just a little, and he turns to face her.

"Lilacs?"

She blinks at him, but her expression is indecipherable. "Yeah, how'd you –­­­ "

"I could, er, smell it. My gran wears that scent a lot."

"She does?" She tilts her head to the side and looks at him with teasing eyes. "Do I remind you of her?"

There's no right answer to this question, he knows. A _yes_ would likely earn him a slap; a _no_ would be a lie. She does remind him of Gran, just a little. He can see bits of his gran in the way she carries herself like she's worth something. He changes the subject instead.

"'S'not a bad smell...I rather like it."

"Really?" she asks, and the left side of her mouth twitches.

"Yeah," he mumbles. It's the most she's ever spoken to him, and suddenly he feels like a gawky prepubescent next to her.

She studies him for a moment, focuses on his hands. He fights the urge to pick at the dirt under his fingernails, positive that she's disgusted. But no, she's smiling, with her whole mouth now, and before he has time to react she takes his right arm, extending it. As he holds it up, she rolls his sleeve back and wraps her cool fingers around his forearm, rubbing her other wrist against his. He shivers a little, and she pulls away. Giving him a last lingering look, she returns to her work.

Neville's eyes don't leave her until after she picks up her wand, and he finds it more than a little unsettling how fingers so cold feel so hot against his skin.

_two._

People always assume that Harry's the one with all the nightmares, and he's perfectly content to let them think that. Even his roommates haven't noticed, because hapless as he may be, Neville's quite handy with the Imperturbable.

Nevertheless, he's learned to keep quiet. The aftertaste of visiting hours has taught him how; he can't cast Imperturbables at home, and Gran has got enough to worry about without adding his foolish dreams to the mix. She's the strength in the Longbottom name, always has been, and wouldn't take any of his emotional blathering. Besides, she'd no doubt tell him to stop his foolishness and be a real man, to grow up for one goddamn second.

The nightmares have only cropped up recently, though. Before, his nights were filled with glimpses of a past he can barely remember, and hospital visits he almost wants to forget. Silent tears would fall like autumn leaves, whisper against his skin as they dried. His mind would fill all the blank spaces for him. A faceless wraith. Threats, spells cast and deflected. Desperation.

A woman's cries, a man's anguish.

Not nightmares. Visions. Visions are conjecture, nightmares are memories.

Now, on especially bad nights, he wakes up not knowing why or how his chest aches so badly, and the pressure intensifies and he breaks down, curling into a rigid ball, and clutches the sheets as he screams. The memory of his mother's touch, however light, however imagined, lulls him –­­­

–­­­ no, it's not his mother tonight. The touch is not hazy; it's firmer, purposeful and distinct ...and sensual...

Neville slips a hand into his pajama bottoms and strokes abstractedly, then speeds up the pace, grateful for the escape that his fanciful desires give him. The dream girl is all blurred lines and hazy edges, indistinct, curves silhouetted in smoky fog. The Imperturbable is up, but out of habit, he throws his free arm over his mouth to muffle his cry when he comes, the faint scent of lilacs filling his nostrils.

_three._

The smooth blue-green leaves gently prod Neville's palms as he checks the stems for parasitic activity. On weekends and when he has free time, he helps Professor Sprout tend to her plants. Sometimes, like now for instance, he likes to come on his own and think. It's easier to gather his thoughts here in the midst of all the whisper-green peace.

Door hinges creak shut, and he jumps, startled. Shielding his eyes against the late-afternoon glare, a figure bathed in too-bright sun is gliding towards him.

"Lavender? What the hell're you doing here?"

"I ran into Professor Flitwick earlier. Said he needed essence of something-or-other...he told me to see if Professor Sprout was available." She tilts her head and studies his face, chews her lip with apprehension.

Realizing how harsh his question must have sounded, he wills his still-beating heart to slow down and takes a deep steadying breath. "I'm sorry," he sighs. "You just scared me, is all."

Her expression changes into one he can't exactly read. "Oh. Well...d'you need help with anything?"

"Sure," Neville half smiles. "But don't you have to get back to Flitwick and tell him Professor Sprout isn't here?"

"W-well," she stammers, "I can see she isn't here at the moment, and um, I guess I don't have to get back to him. Until later, I mean. So...I can stay. For now."

"All right. You can help me repot the bloodroot. Is that okay?"

"That's fine." Her voice is soft, demure even, and he wonders where the irritating shrew of last year has gone.

They work side by side in near-silence, amid the swish of fresh earth and dried leaves, and Neville inhales deeply. The stink of dragon dung and the pungent tang of plucked herbs drift upwards, effervescent in the hazy afternoon glow.

_four._

She comes the next weekend, and the next, and every weekend thereafter, offering help. Though he always accepts, truthfully Neville can just as easily do things himself. He's glad for the meager company, however, and gradually they develop an easy rapport.

Eventually their stilted phrases evolve into friendly conversation, yet it seems that Lavender is still holding back parts of herself. Neville finds it nearly impossible to connect this gentle waif to the flesh-and-blood presence of years past., and one day he resolves to find out what has brought upon this strange turnaround.

"Er, Lavender?" He's found an opportune moment, but his voice is slightly hoarse and abrupt. She doesn't look up from her work.

"Mmm?"

"I was...well, I was wondering...why you're so, um...different." He cringes –­­­ will he ever learn how not to sound like an arse? –­­­ and amends his question , adding "This year, I mean."

She frowns up at him, meeting his eyes at last. "What do you mean?"

"Well...I don't know. You just seem so much nicer than you used to be." He smiles, trying to let her know that he doesn't mean anything bad by what he's saying.

Luckily she doesn't seem to take offense at his rather blunt words. "I'm always nice," she teases.

"Of course you are. I didn't mean that you were _mean_, exactly. It's just that, you used to spend most of your time gossiping in the back of a classroom with Parvati. Or Ron." He gives a rueful half-laugh and goes on. "I doubt you'd have chosen to spend your free time in a stuffy greenhouse with someone like me."

Lavender chews her bottom lip and concentrates on the plant she's treating, apparently thinking of something to say. The pause stretches taut for more than a few moments, and he grows nervous again, but finally she looks up, ready. "Have you ever heard of the saying 'Nothing to do and nobody to do it with'?"

"Is that how you feel?"

She brushes a lock of fringe out of her eyes –­­­ Neville quells the urge to do it for her –­­­ and nods. "My best friend's gone home. I doubt I'll ever see her again, in fact. After she told me she wasn't coming back to school, that her parents wouldn't let her, I felt...I guess I felt like there wasn't much point in getting off with anyone if there was nobody to share it with, you know?"

He nods, urging her on. Honestly, he can't think of anything to say to her, so he lets her continue.

"And I...I lost the only boy I've ever really, truly liked. I don't even think he had any real feelings for me, short of what happened below his waist. He was never mine." She gives a sad smile -- somehow he doesn't think he's seen any other kind this year –­­­ and dabs at her eyes with her knuckles. "Do you know what it's like, Neville? To realize you're just a stand-in for something else, something you were never meant to be?"

He pauses, taking a moment to marvel at their blossoming kinship. She's waiting for an answer it seems, so he twists his mouth into a bitter imitation of her own smile, and nods.

"You could say that," he says, and when she's not looking he studies her a bit more, pondering her words.

_five._

The first time Neville hears her laugh, it's a snap of release, like unstopping a dammed river.

She hadn't noticed the Venomous Tentacula creeping behind her. Neither had he, until it was nearly too late.

"Watch out!" He grabs her round the waist as she shrieks and whisks her out of harm's way, and through the rush of adrenaline and pounding heart, he doesn't realize he's still holding her until she giggles lightly into his neck. The action causes her chest to plump, just a bit against his torso. Suddenly self-conscious, he sets her down gently.

"Thanks," she says, watching the thwarted Tentacula slink away as her laughter dies down. Lavender throws him a smile. They're still but a breath apart. "Didn't know how strong you were till just then."

"Yeah, well..." he trails off, and his blush deepens. "Not many people do."

"Perhaps Harry, wherever he is, should have taken you with him, too."

His skin grows hot at the mention of the closest thing he had to friends. Mumbling protests, he starts to turn away in order to finish his wok, but Lavender's hand flies to his shoulder and stops him.

"You were there, weren't you? At the end of sixth year, and fifth," she clarifies, fingers lightly grazing the cuff of his shirt. It's getting awfully hard to concentrate with the way she's looking at him, like he's the one with all the answers.

He licks his lips; for some reason his throat has gone suddenly dry. "I was."

"Sometimes I wish I could have been as brave as you were."

"Are you joking?"

"No, no I'm not. I remember, last June, how I felt something warm in my pocket. I was in the dormitory with Parvati at the time. I don't even know why I still carried it around, actually. Parvati got this look on her face, and I thought maybe she'd felt it too. We kind of stopped talking and looked at each other, and I guess without even thinking, or talking even, we decided not to answer. 'It's probably something small,' she said. 'They wouldn't need us.' For a second I wanted to tell her we should go, but I got so scared. I didn't know what to feel. And I suppose I should have gone and been brave like you, but I don't think I would have come out of it as well as you did."

"Look, if you think I'm the brave one, you're sorely mistaken."

"But you are," she insists, and begs him to believe her with a pleading stare.

He flinches and avoids her gaze. "Yeah, I followed Harry that night. Yes, I tried to help. I was lucky to have come out alive. But that doesn't mean I haven't dealt with the repercussions."

"What repercussions?"

At her question, phrased so innocently, Neville feels a flash of anger. "What repercussions," he repeats, only without the question mark. "Let's see, there's the fact that I was face-to-face with the woman who murdered my parents –­­­ "

"Your parents were _ i murdered /i _?" she gasps

His laughter sounds hollow and mirthless. "In a way. And there are the nightmares I get about her, and them, and the whole fucked-up thing."

"I think you're brave anyhow, and noble to boot. I couldn't even –­­­ "

"I wanted to cast a Cruciatus," he interrupts, needing her to understand just how un-noble he really is. "Did you know that? Given the chance, I think I could've used it on her. Harry tried. He couldn't do it, but with all this hate I've got for her, I believe I could. With all the hatred I've got for myself, I think I could cast a dozen Cruciatus Curses."

"You shouldn't feel that way," she argues. "I think you're braver than anyone I've ever known. Harry was there because he needs to be, for whatever reason You-Know-Who's got his sights set on him. But you...you followed him because you're a good person."

"Don't," he hisses through gritted teeth, "don't tell me what I can and can't feel. It's none of your business."

"I'll tell you what I damn well please!"

"It's none of your business," he forcefully repeats, ignoring the fact that he's just told her what he hasn't told anyone, ever, save for maybe Trevor. Her declaration is hushing his temper, though. _You're a good person_. Is this what she sees?

"Well," she states, words acid-sharp and formed to sting, "I'll _show_ you what you should be feeling." He doesn't realize she's doing it till he pulls away to breathe, but dear Merlin she's kissing him, she's actually kissing him. It's _hard_, and _he's _ hard, and he struggles to jerk his face away as the shock gives way to another not-quite-solid emotion he's trying desperately to ignore. Finally, using strength he's rarely had a chance to exercise, he succeeds.

"What the _hell_ was that?" he manages to gasp, panting as he struggles for his self-control.

"That was a kiss, Longbottom," she says, raising one eyebrow. When he just stands there, gasping and panting all the more, she continues. "A _kiss_. An action performed to show mutual affection, it can often be taken as a prelude of...things to come."

"Things?"

"Yes, things," she answers, and her retort would be cheeky were it not for her anxious eyes. Lavender lets the hand that was resting on his shoulder creep ever so gently down his chest, and Neville shudders. His arousal has to be obvious, and surely she knows what she's doing. A thought creeps into his mind: _she knows what she's doing..._

"Why? And why me? Bloody hell, Lavender...this –­­­ this isn't right!"

"Don't think," she commands quietly. "Just...give in to what you feel right now. Okay?"

Neville blinks and then nods, licking his lips and lowering his eyes before lifting his gaze to meet hers. They inch closer, lips re-meeting in an awkward angle at first, then slowly, surely, fumbling for the correct alignment, and when Lavender slips her tongue into his mouth he doesn't back away. Instead, he grips her side so tightly he must be leaving bruises, but she doesn't seem to notice. Either that, or she doesn't care, because she wraps one leg around his hip and gasps, and he can actually feel it in the back of his throat, a sharp hum he's got no choice but to swallow.

Her fingers are scrabbling at his trousers even as her leg clings to his side, and dear sweet Merlin he's not even fighting, what kind of a bloke is he? But her advice resonates in his mind. _Just give in to what you feel_. So he does, and he lets her yank his pants down as well, closing his eyes as her fingers nimbly wrap around his..._yes, right there, do that again_...

Somehow, it doesn't seem like enough, and he thinks maybe it won't be enough for her either. Gently, partly because he doesn't want to offend her and because any more stimulation could make his shaft explode, he peels her fingers away.

"I, um...can I take this off?" He brushes his thumb over the sleeve of her blouse, suddenly shy. She steps back and, looking him straight in the eye, drops everything she's wearing to the floor, shedding her clothing gracefully as if she's stepping free from everything he's ever thought about her. He watches with a dry mouth as she strips her knickers off, the last thing standing between him and perfection.

Groaning, he pulls her towards him, and they collapse right there on the greenhouse floor. He knows what to do, he's not an idiot, but for some reason this seems like so much more than he could ever imagine. Perhaps she senses his apprehension, because she does the work for him, guiding him into position and cupping his cheek with reassurance.

"I'm ready."

He thrusts, once and twice, and keeps moving, struggling not to embarrass himself. And her warmth brings him the sweetest of absolutions; he barely has time to think, let alone concentrate on her, and in a humiliatingly brief amount of time and he swears his heart, wrapped in this forever moment, stops beating even as every particle of his existence becomes startlingly aware.. It isn't until several fevered breaths later that he pulls out of her and rolls to the side, a flushed and sheepish grin on his face.

Their breathing slows together, and neither of them speaks. Neville doesn't mind; after this, what more could be said? He can't believe they've just done it –­­­ _he's _just done it, and on the greenhouse floor, to boot. To top it off, he's sticky and sweaty and drying on his skin is their intermingled bodily fluids. The thought is mildly repulsive. Despite that, he feels purer than he has in years.

Cautiously, his fingers grope for hers, and one by one they intertwine, _onetwothreefourfive_. He brings their clasped hands together and places them right there, over his heart.


End file.
